


little deaths

by seasons_of_supernatural



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasons_of_supernatural/pseuds/seasons_of_supernatural
Summary: In which yet another therapy session takes a rather different turn.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 87





	little deaths

There are moments, on occasion, during which Will Graham looks in the mirror and thinks, _how the hell did I get here?_

Because that’s how things are with Hannibal Lecter. Time passes almost imperceptibly, one moment fading to the next in a smooth, gradient motion. The months have transformed him from a mildly troubled FBI-adjacent profiler whose biggest problem was having too many dogs into, well, whatever he is now. And yet, hour to hour, day to day, he can hardly notice a change.

Hannibal Lecter is dangerous. That much Will knows.

_Run away with me._

The notion echoes in the pauses between words, the miniscule silences that hang in the air. Hannibal hasn’t, Will thinks, ever said it, at least in so many words. But the sentiment is there.

_Run away with me._

_I will._

An unspoken pact. A bond between two atoms. Every time they speak or touch, it’s there, like magnets, north and south, just waiting to collide. It’s here in Hannibal’s office, in the imperceptible string between them. It always has been.

From the center of the room, standing in front of his oh-so-therapeutic armchair, Hannibal asks, “Why are you here, Will?”

It’s a fair question, Will reasons, bracing himself against the coffee table as he measures Hannibal’s gaze. Why _is_ he here, in therapy with a serial murderer who framed him for his own crimes? _Why don’t you hate me,_ is the real question. Because by any reasonable metric, Will Graham should hate Hannibal Lecter.

Then again, when have the two of them ever been reasonable?

“I feel," Will answers, "this compulsion towards you.” He steps closer, echoing the words in his footsteps, voice low and steady. “This...this pull, this attraction.”

Hannibal betrays nothing in his expression, always so infuriatingly calm that Will almost wants to punch him. “It is good for us,” he says in that lilting accent of his, “to act on our desires.”

_Desire._ Red-hot in the depths of his mind, just behind his eyes, and Will has been careful to crush every ounce of it before it gets that far.

Hannibal inches closer, closing the space between them, reaching out to gently cup Will's cheek in his palm. “What do you desire, Will?”

_He talks like a fucking Quote of the Day,_ Will thinks to himself before very deliberately kissing him..

Hannibal’s response is immediate drawing him in even further, Will grasping at Hannibal’s shirt with every reckless impulse he's bottled up in this room and all of the intensity to match. Hannibal urges him onto the coffee table, moving down to bite at Will’s neck, and Will fights back a moan in the back of his throat, one leg hooked around the back of Hannibal’s thigh. In between breaths, he manages, “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Doctor?”

Hannibal pauses to look up at Will, lips red and raw, hand hovering dangerously over Will’s hips. He cocks his head to the side, a slow, teasing smirk: “Now, Will, are you _really_ that surprised?”

Will decides that he is very much tired of Hannibal Lecter talking, opting instead to push himself off the table and crush their lips together once more.

Their stumble to the bedroom is hazy at best; one moment they're crowding each other in the office, and the next, Hannibal has him on the thousand-count sheets, making a mockery of doctor-patient boundaries.

Will wastes no time in getting Hannibal’s clothes off, hands tracing up and down his chest and spine, feeling the smooth skin. Hannibal is no less eager but far more deliberate, exploring every inch of Will’s body just to make gasp and shudder and moan. It’s pure torture, and Will can’t get enough of it. Within minutes he’s gasping for breath as Hannibal ghosts over his hipbones, making his way down. Will struggles to see straight.

“Not nice to play with your food,” he says without thinking, and Hannibal freezes. The double entendre is not lost on either of them. It's almost enough to plunge him back into reality, to the Chesapeake Ripper and the FBI and the whole moral ambiguity of sleeping with the enemy. Hannibal looks up at Will, eyes set and daring: _are you going to finish what you’ve started_ ? And it’s almost, _almost_ enough to make Will doubt himself.

But he catches sight of Hannibal's blood-red lips and _fuck_ , Will is in far too deep to quit now.

Seeming content with his discovery, Hannibal brings himself up to Will's eye level. Will can feel the rise and fall of their chests against each other, and when he listens, he can almost swear he hears Hannibal’s heartbeat. _If he even has one._

Will holds Hannibal’s gaze tightly and takes him in, drinks in the maze of his facial expressions and his eyes, dark and fierce. Deadly serious, he asks: “Are you going to kill me, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal doesn't answer, gently tracing a line down Will's chest. “The French have a particular phrase,” he says, fingers dipping closer to the V of his hips, and Will resists the urge to come then and there. “ _La petite mort._ ”

“ _Little death_.”

“Precisely.”

Hannibal leans down to graze Will’s neck, his ear, breath ghosting over his skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Tell me, Will,” Hannibal whispers. “Do you want me to kill you?”

In a sudden out-of-body vision, Will sees himself, lying dead like the victims he so often analyzes at crime scenes. Bloody, torn, organs removed with surgical precision. He sees himself, killed by Hannibal Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper.

_Do I want him to kill me?_

“Yes.”

Will can feel Hannibal’s smirk against his throat and the cut of his teeth as he whispers his praise. He tastes metal as Hannibal pries him open, delights in it, biting a lip to keep from shouting until he remembers he doesn’t have to.

They take it slow and fast at once, twisting together until Will isn’t even sure where he ends and Hannibal begins. Every second is precious, breathless, and Hannibal keeps him on the edge until the very last second, until he can’t take it anymore and he comes back into his own body and the lines between sharpen but don't quite solidify.

“ _La_ _petite mort,”_ Will whispers aloud, Hannibal beside him, their bodies sticky and warm.

“A little death.” The words roll off Hannibal’s tongue like sugar syrup.

“I think I enjoyed dying, then,” Will muses.

“And I quite liked killing you,” Hannibal responds.

Will stands by his statement: if this is death, then by all means, he wants nothing more than to be killed by Hannibal Lecter.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 2am fueled by espresso and self-hatred so if you've made it this far, thank u :)  
> and edit: thank you to the kind stranger on tumblr who corrected my french!


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